The white linen robes felt like chains against Elana’s skin. She stood at the foot of the grand staircase, cane in hand, each breath measured despite the grief. Dawn’s pale light filtered through the palace windows, casting long shadows across marble floors, forcing her to turn away from the glare.

  Her father was dead.

  Murdered.

  Assassinated.

  She forced the thought away, maintaining the mask of composure that had become second nature. The household staff lined the walls in silence, their own grief palpable in the still morning air. Some had served her father for decades.

  Footsteps echoed from above. Elana looked up to see her sisters descending, both dressed in matching white.

  Irmin’s steps were heavy, her shoulders rigid.

  Adelinde’s eyes were downcast.

  They joined her at the bottom of the stairs, and for a moment, none of them spoke.

  What could words offer in the face of such loss?

  Instead, they exchanged silent nods.

  Through the great doors, her father’s body lay on the gilded bier.

  White shroud, white flowers, white morning light—everything pure and clean, as if trying to wash away the violence of his death.

  Palace guards stood at attention, their ceremonial armour gleaming.

  And there, perched atop the bier like a silent sentinel, waited Witz. The King’s wyvern’s black scales shimmered with hints of emerald. He had not spoken since her father’s death.

  Elana slipped on her shaded eye glasses. “It’s time.”

  Her sisters nodded, falling into step beside her as they moved towards the doors. Elana’s cane glided out before her, sweeping for steps and dips she would otherwise miss.

  The procession began in silence. Their own wyverns—Velten, Berthold, and Gisela—followed at a distance.

  Servants scattered white petals before them, the flowers crushed beneath their feet releasing a sweet fragrance that mingled with the morning chill.

  Elana’s eyes slowly adjusted, revealing faces she knew well—courtiers, soldiers, servants, all kneeling as the bier passed. She acknowledged each group with a slight bow of her head, exactly as protocol demanded.

  Let them see strength in their grief.

  Let them know the Kingdom endured.

  Beside her, Irmin breathed in long, controlled breaths.

  Adelinde’s steps faltered occasionally, her confidence seemingly lost in the face of such public mourning.

  Velten’s steadying presence helped Elana maintain her composure. But even his strength couldn’t completely shield her from the crushing weight of responsibility that grew with each step.

  The palace gates opened before them, revealing the streets of Reichsherz packed with citizens. The city’s usual bustle had given way to reverent silence, broken only by occasional wails of grief. More white petals rained down from windows and balconies, creating a path of mourning through the cobbled streets.

  “Look at them,” Adelinde whispered. “They loved him so much.”

  Irmin sniffed. “They feared him. As they should have. As they should fear us.”

  “They respected him,” Elana said, pitching her voice for her sisters’ ears alone. “There’s a difference. One we’d do well to remember.”

  The walk through the city tested Elana’s mobility, her guide-cane snagging every dozen or so steps.

  Every face in the crowd seemed to ask silent questions.

  Who would lead them now?

  How would they maintain stability?

  What would become of the Kingdom?

  Questions she didn’t have answers to. Not yet.

  The procession wound through the docks, where even the roughest sailors stood silent, caps clutched to their chests. The usual smell of fish and tar gave way to the sweet scent of mourning flowers. Ships in the harbour had lowered their flags to half-mast, their colourful pennants replaced with white strips that snapped in the morning breeze.

  As they began the ascent to Temple Hill, Elana felt the weight of the city’s gaze pressing down. From this height, Reichsherz spread out below them—the sprawling docks, the merchant quarters, the noble estates, all the way to the distant walls. Her father’s legacy in stone and wood and lives. Their legacy now, though none of them had been chosen as heir.

  The thought sent a fresh wave of grief through her, but she channelled it into straight shoulders and measured steps. Their wyverns’ shadows swept over the crowd.

  They crested Temple Hill’s peak, and Elana’s steps faltered.

  The assassins’ heads were mounted on iron spikes, their features twisted and black with tar.

  A necessary display—justice made visible.

  Their bodies would be given to the sea, their souls forever damned for their treachery.

  Irmin’s satisfaction rippled through the air like heat. She had caught them, after all. Had brought the Kingdom this small measure of vengeance.

  But Adelinde turned away, no doubt too weak for such sights.

  Elana forced herself to look. To remember.

  These men had destroyed more than just their father—they had shattered the Kingdom’s peace, had torn bonds that might never fully heal. Their punishment was merely the beginning.

  If she was chosen for succession, she would have to make such decisions over life and death.

  Velten’s thoughts brushed against hers. “Justice serves its purpose. But do not let it consume you,” he advised.

  Elana nodded, though her eyes lingered on the tarred faces. The Kingdom demanded its price in blood.

  But there would be more blood before this was done.

  The procession continued past the grim display, white petals dancing in the wind.

  Above the bier, Witz maintained his vigil, his black eyes missing nothing.

  At the temple steps, the High Priestess waited, her blue and white robes stirring in the wind. The staff she held bore the Kingdom’s symbol—a wyvern with spread wings, crafted from pure ravenglass. The temple bell began to toll, each deep note reverberating through Elana’s chest.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  One toll for each year of her father’s reign.

  As she entered, she removed her shaded lenses, relying entirely on her cane for guidance as her eyes adjusted. “Keep walking,” she murmured as Adelinde faltered beside her. “Just keep walking.”

  The nobles had gathered on either side of the temple entrance, their faces carefully composed. But Elana caught the whispered exchanges between historical allies. Even here, even now, the game of power continued.

  Lord Darius stood among them, his expression a perfect mask of grief. The sight of him made her stomach turn. How dare he stand there, pretending to mourn the man his house had murdered?

  Velten cautioned patience. “Not here. Not now.”

  The High Priestess raised her staff as they approached. “The King returns to the earth.” Her voice carried across the still air. “His spirit soars with the great wyverns of old.”

  The sisters kneeled as one, their own wyverns lowering their heads. The movement had been practised since childhood, but today it carried the weight of real loss.

  “Though the King departs, his legacy endures. The flame of the Kingdom shall not falter.”

  Witz stepped down from the bier to perch on the temple’s altar. As the King’s speaker, his role here was crucial, though he had not uttered a word since their father’s death.

  Elana felt her careful control cracking. Beside her, Irmin’s shoulders shook. Adelinde made no sound, but her tears dripped onto the stone floor.

  They were not just the King’s daughters in this moment.

  They were three sisters who had lost their father to violence and treachery.

  Three young women who had to somehow find the strength to carry on, to lead, to protect what he had built.

  The High Priestess’s voice softened. “We commit his body to rest, but his spirit remains with us. In the bonds between rider and wyvern, in the strength of the Kingdom, in the hearts of his people.” She extinguished the ceremonial flame with a gentle breath. “And in the daughters who carry his blood.”

  The nobles began to disperse, their whispered conversations carrying hints of agenda and ambition. But the sisters remained kneeling, unable or unwilling to break this last moment of unity.

  Finally, Elana stood and turned to her sisters. “Come. We need to escort him home.”

  The return journey through the city felt longer, heavier. The crowds had thinned, leaving only scattered groups of mourners who watched in respectful silence. Their wyverns walked closer now, offering what comfort they could through their bonds.

  The memorial gardens waited, secluded and peaceful.

  Here, generations of Kings and Empresses rested beneath white stone markers, each grave marked by a perpetual flame. Their father’s place had been prepared—a simple lantern burning with steady light.

  Witz landed beside it, his claws clicking against stone. His gaze swept over the three sisters, measuring, judging. In that moment, Elana felt the weight of history pressing down. Everything their father had built, everything he had dreamed for the Kingdom, it all rested on them now.

  But as she met her sisters’ eyes, she saw the cracks in their unity.

  Elana stood trapped between her sisters, trying to hold together a Kingdom that seemed determined to shatter.

  She folded her hands tightly, the weight of Witz’s gaze as heavy as the grief in her chest. The flame in the lantern flickered, a fragile light against the encroaching shadows.

  Their father was gone. And with him, perhaps, the last ties that truly bound them together.

  The High Priestess’s hymn wound through the memorial garden, each note carrying the weight of centuries. Elana stood between her sisters before their father’s grave, the simple stone lantern casting dancing shadows across their white mourning robes. She had expected the ceremony to bring closure. Instead, each moment twisted the knife of responsibility deeper.

  The council’s demands echoed in her mind. They needed an heir. The Kingdom needed stability. Yet, here they stood, three sisters divided by their own convictions, while their father’s ashes settled into eternal rest.

  Elana felt Velten’s steady presence behind her. Her wyvern’s silver scales caught the lantern light, his watchful stance mirrored by Berthold and Gisela on either side. But it was Witz who commanded attention—their father’s black wyvern perched atop the memorial lantern.

  The High Priestess’s voice faded as she extinguished a bundle of sacred incense, marking the ceremony’s end. Silence settled over the garden, broken only by the soft whisper of wind through flowering trees.

  Then Witz raised his head, black eyes reflecting the eternal flame. “The King has returned to the earth.” He spoke in his usual sing-song lilt. “The Kingdom remains. But without leadership, it will crumble. A decision must be made.”

  Her sisters tensed on either side. Even their wyverns lowered their heads in deference to Witz’s authority. This was the moment. Surely he would name one of them as heir and end the uncertainty that threatened to tear them apart.

  Witz’s gaze swept over them, measuring, judging. “The council demands clarity. The people demand stability. But not one of you is ready.”

  Elana forced herself to maintain composure.

  How could she not be ready?

  She had spent her life preparing for leadership, learning every nuance of diplomatic protocol, every trick of negotiation.

  “With respect,” she said, keeping her voice steady, “the Kingdom cannot wait for readiness. We face immediate threats.” She stepped forward, meeting Witz’s gaze. “Molotok’s envoy arrived within hours of the assassination, bearing veiled threats about our northern territories. The council fractures into factions daily. And we’ve received warnings of a potential coup among the noble houses.”

  “Threats?” Irmin’s sharp tone cut through the garden’s peace. “You worry about threats while traitors walk free?” She let out a bitter laugh. “I’ve uncovered a smuggling operation that reaches into the highest ranks of society. House Darius’s sigil marked the assassins’ weapons. And there are rogue riders working with foreign powers to—”

  “Both of you are missing the larger picture.” Adelinde’s voice trembled but held firm. “The ravenglass network shows signs of deliberate corruption. The wyvern bonds themselves are becoming unstable. If we don’t address—”

  “Enough.” Witz looked between them. “As I said, not one of you is ready.”

  Heat rose in Elana’s cheeks. To be chastised like children, here before their father’s grave. He had been advisor to Kings since the Kingdom’s formation over a century ago, but this was too much.

  “You each see a fragment of the whole.” Witz’s tail curled around the lantern’s base. “The diplomat sees the fractures in our alliances. The warrior hunts for enemies in shadows. The scholar unravels mysteries too long ignored.” His eyes gleamed. “But the Kingdom’s survival depends on more than any single perspective.” He spread his wings. “You must prove yourselves, not as individuals seeking a throne, but as stewards of the Kingdom’s future.”

  Irmin glared at him. “And how are we to do that when we can’t even agree on what threatens us most?”

  “By understanding that your paths—though divergent—serve the same purpose.” Witz’s gaze fixed on Elana. “You, diplomat, resent your sisters’ absence from court. See their pursuits as distractions from real governance.”

  Elana stiffened. Had her frustration been so obvious?

  “But their strengths are not distractions—they are shields for what you build. The warrior’s blade guards against treachery while you forge alliances. The scholar’s wisdom strengthens the foundations beneath your careful negotiations.”

  He turned to Irmin. “And you, warrior, dismiss your sisters’ concerns as weakness. Yet what victory can last without diplomacy to secure it? What strength endures without knowledge to guide it?”

  Finally, his attention settled on Adelinde. “While you, scholar, hide behind books and theories, believing truth alone will save us. But truth without action is as useless as a sword without an arm to wield it.”

  Silence fell over the garden. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

  “So what would you have us do?” Elana asked. “Split our focus when the Kingdom needs unified leadership?”

  “I would have you see that unity does not mean uniformity.” Witz’s voice softened slightly. “Each of you must pursue your path—but not in isolation. Share what you learn. Support each other’s strengths. Remember that you are shields for one another, not competitors for a prize.”

  Velten’s thoughts brushed against Elana’s mind. “He speaks wisdom. You know this.”

  “The council will not wait forever,” Elana said to her father’s wyvern. “They demand an heir.”

  “The council will wait as long as I deem necessary.” Witz’s tone brooked no argument. “You have until the spring equinox to prove yourselves. Not to me, not to the council, but to the Kingdom itself.”

  They were almost upon the winter solstice. Elana’s mind raced through implications, calculations, possibilities. They had three months.

  “And if we fail?” Adelinde’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Then the Kingdom fails with you. Already our enemies gather. Already corruption spreads through our foundations. Already daggers wait in the dark.”

  Elana looked at her sisters. Irmin’s rigid posture betrayed exhaustion beneath her warrior’s pride. Adelinde’s hands trembled, her fingers stained with ink.

  They were all trying so hard to be what the Kingdom needed, each in their own way.

  But Witz was right. They had been working against each other rather than together.

  “Three months,” she said. “To save the Kingdom or watch it fall.”

  Irmin nodded. “I have leads to follow. Conspirators to track.”

  “The corruption spreads faster each day,” Adelinde said. “I need to understand its source.”

  “And I must keep the council from tearing itself apart while you work.” Elana squared her shoulders. “But perhaps…perhaps we could meet. Share what we learn. Support each other’s efforts.”

  Her sisters nodded, though tension still hung between them. They turned to leave, their wyverns falling in behind them.

  But at the garden’s edge, Elana glanced back at her father’s grave. She could just make out Witz perched on the lantern, black eyes reflecting the eternal flame.

  For a moment, their gazes met.

  He had not named an heir—because, perhaps, he already knew who it would be. Or perhaps because the Kingdom needed something more than that which traditional succession could provide.

  Elana turned away, but the weight of his gaze lingered, the weight of his words.

  They had three months to prove themselves worthy of their father’s legacy.

  Three months to save everything they held dear.

  Or watch it burn.

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